


Acts of Release

by Wallwalker



Category: Final Fantasy IV
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Metaphorical Sex, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallwalker/pseuds/Wallwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosa can always tell when Cecil needs this, and he needs it very badly tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acts of Release

**Author's Note:**

  * For [finesharp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/finesharp/gifts).



> Prompt: Cecil/Rosa, ideally BDSM (explicit or not, your choice) on the prompt 'Where's the Dark Knight I fell in love with?'  
> Thanks for the beta, Lassarina!

Rosa can always tell when Cecil needs this, and he needs it especially badly tonight.

She doesn't even need to ask, anymore. It's in the look in his eyes, the strain in his brow after a particularly difficult day of politics. Baron has few enemies from without; there is not another nation in the world that does not respect Cecil and his deeds, especially since their friends still hold a great deal of sway in their nations' affairs. The strain comes from within, from the noble lords of Baron who decry many of his decrees as revolutionary and dangerous. That makes it worse, Rosa knows; if it was another enemy, another Zeromus, he would not feel this guilt over their conflict. But these lords are only doing what they believe is best for the future of the same nation that Cecil loves, and she knows that it wears on him.

She never says anything to him as they walk back to their bedchamber, not on nights like these. She knows that if she speaks to him he will feel compelled to answer, and that he does not wish to speak. "I've spoken more in the past weeks than I ever thought I would be forced to speak," he had told her once, a mere month after taking the throne, his voice already weary. "I say so much, and I still do not know if they truly listen."

"Of course they listen," she had said quietly; at the time she had thought that reassurance was what he had been looking for. "You are the King. Everyone respects what you've done, Cecil."

He'd smiled at her and taken her hand, but hadn't answered, and she had looked in his eyes and seen the weariness there, as well. Even then, he had already been sick of words.

Tonight there are no words to be spoken. What Cecil needs is not something that can be expressed in words. She dismisses the servants with a gentle smile before they can even take his royal robes; they leave without a word, with only a polite bow as acknowledgement. At first they had demurred, of course. They had meant well, but in the end they had listened to her; she could be very stubborn, when she wanted to be.

She turns to her husband then and removes his crown, puts it carefully aside. She unclasps his robe and gently pulls it from his shoulders, and as she removes it she already feels him begin to breathe more easily, as if the robe truly was the weight of Baron's trust. She puts them aside, then runs her fingers through his long hair, watches him start to relax as she touches his face gently.

He does not begin to relax, though, until he feels Rosa wrap a strip of cloth carefully but tightly around his face, blocking the light from his eyes and leaving him standing blinded in his own chambers. She leads him to their bed and pushes him down - carefully, lest he fall and injure himself - and he goes easily enough, his body yielding to her gentle touch.

He does not speak as she begins to strip him of the rest of his clothes, but she can hear the quickening in his breathing, and when she brushes his bare skin with her fingertips he tenses, leans into the touch ever so slightly. Yes, she had been right before, she thinks with satisfaction. He needs her to remind him tonight.

The ritual had begun, ultimately, with her own idle thought. She loved her husband, of course, and would love him no matter what. She was proud of him for conquering his own darkness, but part of her had felt... she wasn't sure how to express it, in all honestly. She loved her husband as a Paladin, but when she had fallen in love with him he had been a darker man, clad in the black armor of a Dark Knight and wielding powers that had made the other White Wizards cringe and make holy wards at the very mention of them. She had loved him, despite - and sometimes, because of - that darkness, that mystery. But Cecil himself had hated and feared that part of himself. And maybe that was just as well. Still... Rosa couldn't deny that she missed it, at times.

Maybe that is why she is surprisingly well suited to play this role.

She finishes stripping Cecil bare, careful now not to touch his bare skin. He is already hardening as she works, and there is a quiet, breathy, pleading note to his breathing, now. It's already enough to make her want to finish this, to kiss his parted lips and the pulse of his throat and his muscular chest, her mouth moving ever lower until she could take his cock into her mouth, tease it with her tongue, and -

No. Not tonight. Instead she takes more cloth, and moves him - his body yields to her as she demands - so that she can secure one of his wrists to the bedpost, then the other. She stands back, takes a moment to inspect her handiwork - he looks so helpless there, so trusting. She can't deny that she likes the feeling.

She leans down, finally touching him, slowly dragging her fingernails against his bare chest. She's careful, of course - just enough pressure for him to feel it - but he gasps as she circles a sensitive place, and she sees him struggling to maintain his composure. He's already close, she can see it - some nights feel like ages before he begins to react to what she does, but tonight he's ready, flushed and hard and struggling not to strain against his bonds.

Rosa could finish this right away, if she wished, but instead she keeps going, pinching and biting at his flesh. He is sensitive tonight, almost absurdly so, and a few small muffled moans escape his lips, but for the most part he does not fight. He accepts and endures it, as he had his ordeal.

It had taken Rosa both time and a good deal of prodding to finally convince Cecil to tell her even a short version of what had happened in the chamber of Mount Ordeals. His voice had shaken as he'd spoken of it - the battle with himself, the realization that he was both darkness and light, the understanding that as much as he wanted to struggle against that darkness, it would only consume him faster if he did not accept it. And that, in a sense, was what this was. Accepting this part of himself that he could not control, reminding him that he was strong enough to bear the darkness in his heart. Only, she thought wryly, she did not think that he had enjoyed his ordeal half as much as he enjoyed this. His member was throbbing now, hard and flushed and straining with every careful bite she made against his flesh.

For all that she understood of self-sacrifice, well, even she had her limits.

She is none too gentle; over the months she had learned his limits, knew that he would speak if he wished her to stop, if she had genuinely caused him harm. But there are no words, only incoherent moans as she climbs over him and sinks down, taking all of him in as quickly as she can. She had bitten him hard enough already to leave purplish marks all over his skin, his chest and shoulder and a few low on his neck; she was careful, did her best to keep from marking him in a place that others might see. Fortunately, few saw the king of Baron without his heavy royal robes.

Even as she rides him she keeps going - bending down for brief moments to bite at his chest and his shoulders, running her fingernails down his skin - and he grits his teeth and thrusts his hips up to move with hers, desperate and needy. She can see the pleading in his face, the need for release, even with his eyes covered.

Some nights he lasts for what feels like hours, when he is feeling particularly frustrated or helpless. Tonight, she isn't sure how long it lasts before his entire body stiffens, but it isn't long, and she presses herself even more closely against him as he comes, waits for him to finish before she carefully slips off his blindfold. His eyes are still shut tightly beneath it, if only for a second; when he opens them at last, his face is exhausted and serene all at once.

He murmurs something to her as she moves to remove his bindings, still straddling him, feeling him soften inside of her. It might have been "Thank you," or it might have been "I love you." She wasn't sure, and at that moment she was not so sure it mattered which one he had said.

She settles down beside him at last, and he turns and wraps his arms around her. His breathing is slower now, but his heart still beats like a desperate, trapped bird. It would slow itself, given time. She looked at him then, back beside her in the light of the candles by their bed, his face still flushed, and wonders if the expression that he wore was the same as the one he wore when he had first emerged from Mount Ordeals, the first time he'd defeated the darkness by permitting it to be.

She kisses him lightly on the lips before she sits up again, and blows the candles out.

**Author's Note:**

> This went in directions that I really wasn't expecting, and that I hope still work for you. (Also, apologies for not being able to fit Kain into this equation, but I couldn't quite figure out how.)


End file.
